But Grace could see that her dread8 of the cholera was intense. She even tried at first to prevent Grace from entering an infected house; but that proposal was answered by a look of horror which shamed her into silence, and she contented10 herself with all but tabooing Grace; making her change her clothes whenever she came in; refusing to sit with her, almost to eat with her. But, over and above all this, she had grown moody11, peevish12, subject to violent bursts of crying, fits of superstitious13 depression; spent, sometimes, whole days in reading experimental books, arguing with the preachers, gadding14 to and fro to every sermon, Arminian or Calvinist; and at last even to Church—walking in dry places, poor soul; seeking rest, and finding none.
All this betokened15 some malady16 of the mind, rather than of the body; but what that malady was, Grace dare not even try to guess. Perhaps it was one of the fits of religious melancholy so common in the West country— like her own, in fact: perhaps it was all "nerves." Her mother was growing old, and had a great deal of business to worry her; and so Grace thrust away the horrible suspicion by little self-deceptions.
She went into the shop. Tom was busy upon his knees behind the counter.
She made her request.
"Ah, Miss Harvey!" and he sprang up. "It will be a pleasure to serve you once more in one's life. I am just going."
"Going where?"
"To Turkey. I find this place too pleasant and too poor. Not work enough, and certainly not pay enough. So I have got an appointment as surgeon in the Turkish contingent17, and shall be off in an hour."
"To Turkey! to the war?"
"Yes. It's a long time since I have seen any fighting. I am quite out of practice in gunshot wounds. There is the medicine. Good-bye! You will shake hands once, for the sake of our late cholera work together."
Grace held out her hand mechanically across the counter, and he took it.
But she did not look into his face. Only she said, half to herself,—
"Well, better so. I have no doubt you will be very useful among them."
"Confound the icicle!" thought Tom. "I really believe that she wants to get rid of me." And he would have withdrawn18 his hand in a pet: but she held it still.
Quaint19 it was; those two strong natures, each loving the other better than anything else on earth, and yet parted by the thinnest pane20 of ice, which a single look would have melted. She longing21 to follow that man over the wide world, slave for him, die for him; he longing for the least excuse for making a fool of himself, and crying, "Take me, as I take you, without a penny, for better, for worse!" If their eyes had but met! But they did not meet; and the pane of ice kept them asunder22 as surely as a wall of iron.
Was it that Tom was piqued23 at her seeming coldness: or did he expect, before he made any advances, that she should show that she wished at least for his respect, by saying something to clear up the ugly question which lay between them? Or was he, as I suspect, so ready to melt, and make a fool of himself, that he must needs harden his own heart by help of the devil himself? And yet there are excuses for him. It would have been a sore trial to any man's temper to quit Aberalva in the belief that he left fifteen hundred pounds behind him. Be that as it may, he said carelessly, after a moment's pause,—
"Well, farewell! And, by the bye, about that little money matter. The month of which you spoke24 once was up yesterday. I suppose I am not worthy25 yet; so I shall be humble26, and wait patiently. Don't hurry yourself, I beg of you, on my account."
She snatched her hand from his without a word, and rushed out of the shop.
He returned to his packing, whistling away as shrill27 as any blackbird.
Little did he think that Grace's heart was bursting, as she hurried down the street, covering her face in her veil, as if every one would espy29 her dark secret in her countenance30.
But she did not go home to hysterics and vain tears. An awful purpose had arisen in her mind, under the pressure of that great agony. Heavens, how she loved that man! To be suspected by him was torture. But she could bear that. It was her cross; she could carry it, lie down on it, and endure: but wrong him she could not—would not! It was sinful enough while he was there; but doubly, unbearably31 sinful, when he was going to a foreign country, when he would need every farthing he had. So not for her own sake, but for his, she spoke to her mother when she went home, and found her sitting over her Bible in the little parlour, vainly trying to find a text which suited her distemper.
"Mother, you have the Bible before you there."
"Yes, child! Why? What?" asked she, looking up uneasily.
Grace fixed32 her eyes on the ground. She could not look her mother in the face.
"Do you ever read the thirty-second Psalm33, mother?"
"Which? Why not, child?"
"Let us read it together then, now."
And Grace, taking up her own Bible, sat quietly down and read, as none in that parish save she could read:
"Blessed is he whose transgression34 is forgiven, and whose sin is covered.
"Blessed is the man unto whom the Lord imputeth not iniquity35, and in whose spirit there is no guile36.
"When I kept silence, my bones waxed old, through my groaning37 all the day long.
"For day and night Thy hand was heavy upon me; my moisture is turned to the drought of summer.
"I acknowledge my sin unto Thee, and mine iniquity have I not hid.
"I said, I will confess my transgressions38 unto the Lord; and Thou forgavest the iniquity of my sin."
Grace stopped, choked with tears which the pathos39 of her own voice had called up. She looked at her mother. There were no tears in her eyes: only a dull thwart40 look of terror and suspicion. The shaft41, however bravely and cunningly sped, had missed its mark.
Poor Grace! Her usual eloquence42 utterly43 failed her, as most things do in which one is wont44 to trust, before the pressure of a real and horrible evil. She had no heart to make fine sentences, to preach a brilliant sermon of commonplaces. What could she say that her mother had not known long before she was born? And throwing herself on her knees at her mother's feet, she grasped both her hands and looked into her face imploringly45,—"Mother! mother! mother!" was all that she could say: but their tone meant more than all words.—Reproof, counsel, comfort, utter tenderness, and under-current of clear deep trust, bubbling up from beneath all passing suspicions, however dark and foul46, were in it: but they were vain.
Baser terror, the parent of baser suspicion, had hardened that woman's heart for the while; and all she answered was,—
"Get up! what is this foolery?"
"I will not! I will not rise till you have told me."
"What?"
"Whether"—and she forced the words slowly out in a low whisper, "whether you know—anything of—of—Mr. Thurnall's money—his belt?"
"Is the girl mad! Belt! Money? Do you take me for a thief, wench!"
"No! no! no! Only say you—you know nothing of it!"
"Psha! girl! Go to your school:" and the old woman tried to rise.
"Only say that! only let me know that it is a dream—a hideous47 dream which the devil put into my wicked, wicked heart—and let me know that I am the basest, meanest of daughters for harbouring such a thought a moment! It will be comfort, bliss48, to what I endure! Only say that, and I will crawl to your feet, and beg for your forgiveness,—ask you to beat me, like a child, as I shall deserve! Drive me out, if you will, and let me die, as I shall deserve! Only say the word, and take this fire from before my eyes, which burns day and night,—till my brain is dried up with misery49 and shame! Mother, mother, speak!"
But then burst out the horrible suspicion, which falsehood, suspecting all others of being false as itself, had engendered50 in that mother's heart.
"Yes, viper51! I see your plan! Do you think I do not know that you are in love with that fellow?"
Grace started as if she had been shot, and covered her face with her hands.
"Yes! and want me to betray myself—to tell a lie about myself, that you may curry52 favour with him—a penniless, unbelieving—"
"Mother!" almost shrieked53 Grace, "I can bear no more! Say that it is a lie, and then kill me if you will!"
"It is a lie, from beginning to end! What else should it be?" And the woman, in the hurry of her passion, confirmed the equivocation55 with an oath; and then ran on, as if to turn her own thoughts, as well as Grace's, into commonplaces about "a poor old mother, who cares for nothing but you; who has worked her fingers to the bone for years to leave you a little money when she is gone! I wish I were gone! I wish I were out of this wretched ungrateful world, I do! To have my own child turn against me in my old age!"
Grace lifted her hands from her face, and looked steadfastly56 at her mother. And behold57, she knew not how or why, she felt that her mother had forsworn herself. A strong shudder58 passed through her; she rose and was leaving the room in silence.
"Where are you going, hussy? Stop!" screamed her mother between her teeth, her rage and cruelty rising, as it will with weak natures, in the very act of triumph,—"to your young man?"
"To pray," said Grace, quietly; and locking herself into the empty schoolroom, gave vent9 to all her feelings, but not in tears.
How she upbraided59 herself!—She had not used her strength; she had not told her mother all her heart. And yet how could she tell her heart? How face her mother with such vague suspicions, hardly supported by a single fact? How argue it out against her like a lawyer, and convict her to her face? What daughter could do that, who had human love and reverence60 left in her? No! to touch her inward witness, as the Quakers well and truly term it, was the only method: and it had failed. "God help me!" was her only cry: but the help did not come yet; there came over her instead a feeling of utter loneliness. Willis dead; Thurnall gone; her mother estranged61; and, like a child lost upon a great moor62, she looked round all heaven and earth, and there was none to counsel, none to guide— perhaps not even God. For would He help her as long as she lived in sin? And was she not living in sin, deadly sin, as long as she knew what she was sure she knew, and left the wrong unrighted?
It is sometimes true, the popular saying, that sunshine comes after storm. Sometimes true, or who could live? but not always: not even often. Equally true is the popular antithet, that misfortunes never come single; that in most human lives there are periods of trouble, blow following blow, wave following wave, from opposite and unexpected quarters, with no natural or logical sequence, till all God's billows have gone over the soul.
How paltry63 and helpless, in such dark times, are all theories of mere64 self-education; all proud attempts, like that of G?the's Wilhelm Meister, to hang self-poised in the centre of the abyss, and there organise65 for oneself a character by means of circumstances! Easy enough, and graceful66 enough does that dream look, while all the circumstances themselves—all which stands around—are easy and graceful, obliging and commonplace, like the sphere of petty experiences with which G?the surrounds his insipid67 hero. Easy enough it seems for a man to educate himself without God, as long as he lies comfortably on a sofa, with a cup of coffee and a review: but what if that "daemonic element of the universe," which G?the confessed, and yet in his luxuriousness69 tried to ignore, because he could not explain—what if that broke forth70 over the graceful and prosperous student, as it may any moment! What if some thing, or some person, or many things, or many persons, one after the other (questions which he must get answered then, or die), took him up and dashed him down, again, and again, and again, till he was ready to cry, "I reckoned till morning that like a lion he will break all my bones; from morning till evening he will make an end of me"? What if he thus found himself hurled71 perforce amid the real universal experiences of humanity; and made free, in spite of himself, by doubt and fear and horror of great darkness, of the brotherhood72 of woe73, common alike to the simplest peasant-woman, and to every great soul perhaps, who has left his impress and sign manual upon the hearts of after generations? Jew, Heathen, or Christian74; men of the most opposite creeds75 and aims; whether it be Moses or Socrates, Isaiah or Epictetus, Augustine or Mohammed, Dante or Bernard, Shakspeare or Bacon, or G?the's self, no doubt, though in his tremendous pride he would not confess it even to himself,—each and all of them have this one fact in common—that once in their lives, at least, they have gone down into the bottomless pit, and "stato all' inferno"—as the children used truly to say of Dante; and there, out of the utter darkness, have asked the question of all questions—"Is there a God? And if there be, what is he doing with me?"
What refuge then in self-education; when a man feels himself powerless in the gripe of some unseen and inevitable76 power, and knows not whether it be chance, or necessity, or a devouring77 fiend? To wrap himself sternly in himself, and cry, "I will endure, though all the universe be against me;"—how fine it sounds!—But who has done it? Could a man do it perfectly78 but for one moment,—could he absolutely and utterly for one moment isolate79 himself, and accept his own isolation80 as a fact, he were then and there a madman or a suicide. As it is, his nature, happily too weak for that desperate self-assertion, falls back recklessly on some form, more or less graceful according to the temperament81, of the ancient panacea82, "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die." Why should a man educate self, when he knows not whither he goes, what will befall him to-night? No. There is but one escape, one chink through which we may see light; one rock on which our feet may find standing-place, even in the abyss: and that is the belief, intuitive, inspired, due neither to reasoning nor to study, that the billows are God's billows; and that though we go down to hell, He is there also;— the belief that not we, but He, is educating us; that these seemingly fantastic and incoherent miseries83, storm following earthquake, and earthquake fire, as if the caprice of all the demons84 were let loose against us, have in His Mind a spiritual coherence85, an organic unity86 and purpose (though we see it not); that sorrows do not come singly, only because He is making short work with our spirits; and because the more effect He sees produced by one blow, the more swiftly He follows it up by another; till, in one great and varied87 crisis, seemingly long to us, but short enough compared with immortality88, our spirits may be—
"Heated hot with burning fears,
And bathed in baths of hissing89 tears,
And battered90 with the strokes of doom91,
To shape and use."
And thus, perhaps, it was with poor Grace Harvey. At least, happily for her, she began after a while to think that it was so. Only after a while, though. There was at first a phase of repining, of doubt, almost of indignation against high heaven. Who shall judge her? What blame if the crucified one writhe92 when the first nail is driven? What blame if the stoutest93 turn sick and giddy at the first home-thrust of that sword which pierces the joints94 and marrow95, and lays bare to self the secrets of the heart? God gives poor souls time to recover their breaths, ere He strikes again; and if He be not angry, why should we condemn96?
Poor Grace! Her sorrows had been thickening fast during the last few months. She was schoolmistress again, true; but where were her children? Those of them whom she loved best, were swept away by the cholera; and could she face the remnant, each in mourning for a parent or a brother? That alone was grief enough for her; and yet that was the lightest of all her griefs. She loved Tom Thurnall—how much, she dared not tell herself; she longed to "save" him. She had thought, and not untruly, during the past cholera weeks, that he was softened97, opened to new impressions: but he had avoided her more than ever—perhaps suspected her again more than ever—and now he was gone, gone for ever. That, too, was grief enough alone. But darkest and deepest of all, darker and deeper than the past shame of being suspected by him she loved, was the shame of suspecting her own mother—of believing herself, as she did, privy98 to that shameful99 theft, and yet unable to make restitution100. There was the horror of all horrors, the close prison which seemed to stifle101 her whole soul. The only chink through which a breath of air seemed to come, and keep her heart alive, was the hope that somehow, somewhere, she might find that belt, and restore it without her mother's knowledge.
But more—the first of September was come and gone; the bill for five-and-twenty pounds was due, and was not met. Grace, choking down her honest pride, went off to the grocer, and, with tears which he could not resist, persuaded him to renew the bill for one month more; and now that month was all but past, and yet there was no money. Eight or ten people who owed Mrs. Harvey money had died of the cholera. Some, of course, had left no effects; and all hope of their working out their debts was gone. Some had left money behind them: but it was still in the lawyer's hands, some of it at sea, some on mortgage, some in houses which must be sold; till their affairs were wound up—(a sadly slow affair when a country attorney has a poor man's unprofitable business to transact)—nothing could come in to Mrs. Harvey. To and fro she went with knitted brow and heavy heart; and brought home again only promises, as she had done a hundred times before. One day she went up to Mrs. Heale. Old Heale owed her thirteen pounds and more: but that was not the least reason for paying. His cholera patients had not paid him; and whether Heale had the money by him or not, he was not going to pay his debts till other people paid theirs. Mrs. Harvey stormed; Mrs. Heale gave her as good as she brought; and Mrs. Harvey threatened to County Court her husband; whereon Mrs. Heale, en revanche dragged out the books, and displayed to the poor widow's horror-struck eyes an account for medicine and attendance, on her and Grace, which nearly swallowed up the debt. Poor Grace was overwhelmed when her mother came home and upbraided her, in her despair, with being a burden. Was she not a burden? Must she not be one henceforth? No, she would take in needlework, labour in the fields, heave ballast among the coarse pauper-girls on the quay-pool, anything rather: but how to meet the present difficulty?
"We must sell our furniture, mother!"
"For a quarter of what it's worth? Never, girl! No! The Lord will provide," said she, between her clenched102 teeth, with a sort of hysteric chuckle103. "The Lord will provide!"
"I believe it; I believe it," said poor Grace; "but faith is weak, and the day is very dark, mother."
"Dark, ay? And may be darker, yet; but the Lord will provide. He prepares a table in the wilderness104 for his saints that the world don't think of."
"Oh, mother! and do you think there is any door of hope?"
"Go to bed, girl; go to bed, and leave me to see to that. Find my spectacles. Wherever have you laid them to, now? I'll look over the books awhile."
"Do let me go over them for you."
"No, you sha'n't! I suppose you'll be wanting to make out your poor old mother's been cheating somebody. Why not, if I'm a thief, Miss, eh?"
"Oh, mother! mother! don't say that again."
And Grace glided105 out meekly106 to her own chamber107, which was on the ground-floor adjoining the parlour, and there spent more than one hour in prayer, from which no present comfort seemed to come; yet who shall say that it was all unanswered?
At last her mother came upstairs, and put her head in angrily:—"Why ben't you in bed, girl? sitting up this way?"
"I was praying, mother," says Grace, looking up as she knelt.
"Praying! What's the use of praying? and who'll hear you if you pray? What you want's a husband, to keep you out of the workhouse; and you won't get that by kneeling here. Get to bed, I say, or I'll pull you up?"
Grace obeyed uncomplaining, but utterly shocked; though she was not unacquainted with those frightful108 fits of morose109 unbelief, even of fierce blasphemy110, to which the excitable West-country mind is liable, after having been over-strained by superstitious self-inspection, and by the desperate attempt to prove itself right and safe from frames and feelings, while fact and conscience proclaim it wrong.
The West-country people are apt to attribute these paroxysms to the possession of a devil; and so did Grace that night.
Trembling with terror and loving pity, she lay down, and began to pray afresh for that poor wild mother.
At last the fear crossed her that her mother might make away with herself. But a few years before, another class-leader in Aberalva had attempted to do so, and had all but succeeded. The thought was intolerable. She must go to her; face reproaches, blows, anything. She rose from her bed, and went to the door. It was fastened on the outside.
A cold perspiration111 stood on her forehead. She opened her lips to shriek54 to her mother: but checked herself when she heard her stirring gently in the outer room. Her pulses throbbed112 too loudly at first for her to hear distinctly: but she felt that it was no moment for giving way to emotion; by a strong effort of will, she conquered herself; and then, with that preternatural acuteness of sense which some women possess, she could hear everything her mother was doing. She heard her put on her shawl, her bonnet113; she heard her open the front door gently. It was now long past midnight. Whither could she be going at that hour?
She heard her go gently to the left, past the window; and yet her footfall was all but inaudible. No rain had fallen, and her shoes ought to have sounded on the hard earth. She must have taken them off. There, she was stopping, just by the school-door. Now she moved again. She must have stopped to put on her shoes; for now Grace could hear her steps distinctly, down the earth bank, and over the rattling114 shingle115 of the beach. Where was she going? Grace must follow!
The door was fast: but in a moment she had removed the table, opened the shutter116 and the window.
"Thank God that I stayed here on the ground floor, instead of going back to my own room when Major Campbell left. It is a providence117! The Lord has not forsaken118 me yet!" said the sweet saint, as, catching119 up her shawl, she wrapped it round her, and slipping through the window, crouched120 under the shadow of the house, and looked for her mother.
She was hurrying over the rocks, a hundred yards off. Whither? To drown herself in the sea? No; she held on along the mid-beach, right across the cove28, toward Arthur's Nose. But why? Grace must know.
She felt, she knew not why, that this strange journey, that wild "The Lord will provide," had to do with the subject of her suspicion. Perhaps this was the crisis; perhaps all will he cleared up to-night, for joy or for utter shame.
The tide was low; the beach was bright in the western moonlight: only along the cliff foot lay a strip of shadow a quarter of a mile long, till the Nose, like a great black wall, buried the corner of the cove in darkness.
Along that strip of shadow she ran, crouching121; now stumbling over a boulder122, now crushing her bare feet between the sharp pebbles123, as, heedless where she stepped, she kept her eye fixed on her mother. As if fascinated, she could see nothing else in heaven or earth but that dark figure, hurrying along with a dogged determination, and then stopping a moment to look round, as if in fear of a pursuer. And then Grace lay down on the cold stones, and pressed herself into the very earth; and the moment her mother turned to go forward, sprang up and followed.
And then a true woman's thought flashed across her, and shaped itself into a prayer. For herself she never thought: but if the Coast Guardsman above should see her mother, stop her, question her? God grant that he might be on the other side of the point! And she hurried on again.
Near the Nose the rocks ran high and jagged; her mother held on to them, passed through a narrow chasm124, and disappeared.
Grace now, not fifty yards from her, darted125 out of the shadow into the moonlight, and ran breathlessly toward the spot where she had seen her mother last. Like Anderssen's little sea-maiden she went, every step on sharp knives, across the rough beds of barnacles; but she felt no pain, in the greatness of her terror and her love.
She crouched between the rocks a moment; heard her mother slipping and splashing among the pools; and glided after her like a ghost—a guardian126 angel rather—till she saw her emerge again for a moment into the moonlight, upon a strip of beach beneath the Nose.
It was a weird127 and lonely spot; and a dangerous spot withal. For only at low spring-tide could it be reached from the land, and then the flood rose far up the cliff, covering all the shingle, and filling the mouth of a dark cavern128. Had her mother gone to that cavern? It was impossible to see, so utterly was the cliff shrouded129 in shadow.
Shivering with cold and excitement, Grace crouched down, and gazed into the gloom, till her eyes swam, and a hundred fantastic figures, and sparks of fire, seemed to dance between her and the rock. Sparks of fire!—yes; but that last one was no fancy. An actual flash; the crackle and sputter130 of a match! What could it mean? Another match was lighted; and a moment after, the glare of a lanthorn showed her mother entering beneath the polished arch of rock which glared lurid131 overhead, like the gateway132 of the pit of fire.
The light vanished into the windings133 of the cave. And then Grace, hardly knowing what she did, rushed up the beach, and crouched down once more at the cave's mouth. There she sat, she knew not how long, listening, listening, like a hunted hare; her whole faculties134 concentrated in the one sense of hearing; her eyes wandering vacantly over the black saws of rock, and glistening135 oar-weed beds, and bright phosphoric sea. Thank Heaven, there was not a ripple136 to break the silence. Ah, what was that sound within? She pressed her ear against the rock, to hear more surely. A rumbling137 as of stones rolled down. And then,—was it a fancy, or were her powers of hearing, intensified138 by excitement, actually equal to discern the chink of coin? Who knows? but in another moment she had glided in, silently, swiftly, holding her very breath; and saw her mother kneeling on the ground, the lanthorn by her side, and in her hand the long-lost belt.
She did not speak, she did not move. She always knew, in her heart of hearts, that so it was: but when the sin took bodily shape, and was there before her very eyes, it was too dreadful to speak of, to act upon yet. And amid the most torturing horror and disgust of that great sin, rose up in her the divinest love for the sinner; she felt—strange paradox—that she had never loved her mother as she did at that moment. "Oh, that it had been I who had done it, and not she!" And her mother's sin was to her her own sin, her mother's shame her shame, till all sense of her mother's guilt139 vanished in the light of her divine love. "Oh, that I could take her up tenderly, tell her that all is forgiven and forgotten by man and God!—serve her as I have never served her yet!— nurse her to sleep on my bosom140, and then go forth and bear her punishment, even if need be on the gallows-tree!" And there she stood, in a silent agony of tender pity, drinking her portion of the cup of Him who bore the sins of all the world.
Silently she stood; and silently she turned to go, to go home and pray for guidance in that dark labyrinth141 of confused duties. Her mother heard the rustle142; looked up; and sprang to her feet with a scream, dropping gold pieces on the ground.
Her first impulse was wild terror. She was discovered; by whom, she knew not. She clasped her evil treasure to her bosom, and thrusting Grace against the rock, fled wildly out.
"Mother! Mother!" shrieked Grace, rushing after her. The shawl fell from her shoulders. Her mother looked back, and saw the white figure.
"God's angel! God's angel, come to destroy me! as he came to Balaam!" and in the madness of her guilty fancy she saw in Grace's hand the fiery143 sword which was to smite144 her.
Another step, looking backward still, and she had tripped over a stone. She fell, and striking the back of her head against the rock, lay senseless.
Tenderly Grace lifted her up: went for water to a pool near by; bathed her face, calling on her by every term of endearment145. Slowly the old woman recovered her consciousness, but showed it only in moans. Her head was cut and bleeding. Grace bound it up, and then taking that fatal belt, bound it next to her own heart, never to be moved from thence till she should put it into the hands of him to whom it belonged.
And then she lifted up her mother.
"Come home, darling mother;" and she tried to make her stand and walk.
The old woman only moaned, and waved her away impatiently. Grace put her on her feet; but she fell again. The lower limbs seemed all but paralysed.
Slowly that sweet saint lifted her, and laid her on her own back; and slowly she bore her homeward, with aching knees and bleeding feet; while before her eyes hung the picture of Him who bore his cross up Calvary, till a solemn joy and pride in that sacred burden seemed to intertwine itself with her deep misery. And fainting every moment with pain and weakness, she still went on, as if by supernatural strength: and murmured—
"Thou didst bear more for me, and shall not I bear even this for Thee?"
Surely, if blest spirits can weep and smile over the woes146 and heroisms of us mortal men, faces brighter than the stars looked down on that fair girl that night, and in loving sympathy called her, too, blest.
At last it was over. Undiscovered she reached home, laid her mother on the bed, and tended her till morning; but long ere morning dawned stupor148 had changed into delirium149, and Grace's ears were all on fire with words —which those who have ever heard will have no heart to write.
And now, by one of those strange vagaries150, in which epidemics151 so often indulge, appeared other symptoms; and by day-dawn cholera itself.
Heale, though recovering, was still too weak to be of use: but, happily, the medical man sent down by the Board of Health was still in the town.
Grace sent for him; but he shook his head after the first look. The wretched woman's ravings at once explained the case, and made it, in his eyes, all but hopeless.
The sudden shock to body and mind, the sudden prostration152 of strength, had brought out the disease which she had dreaded153 so intensely, and against which she had taken so many precautions, and which yet lay, all the while, lurking154 unfelt in her system.
A hideous eight-and-forty hours followed. The preachers and class-leaders came to pray over the dying woman: but she screamed to Grace to send them away. She had just sense enough left to dread that she might betray her own shame. Would she have the new clergyman then? No; she would have no one;—no one could help her! Let her only die in peace!
And Grace closed the door upon all but the doctor, who treated the wild sufferer's wild words as the mere fancies of delirium; and then Grace watched and prayed, till she found herself alone with the dead.
She wrote a letter to Thurnall—
"Sir—I have found your belt, and all the money, I believe and trust, which it contained. If you will be so kind as to tell me where and how I shall send it to you, you will take a heavy burden off the mind of
"Your obedient humble Servant, who trusts that you will forgive her having been unable to fulfil her promise."
She addressed the letter to Whitbury; for thither155 Tom had ordered his letters to be sent; but she received no answer.
The day after Mrs. Harvey was buried, the sale of all her effects was announced in Aberalva.
Grace received the proceeds, went round to all the creditors157, and paid them all which was due. She had a few pounds left. What to do with that she knew full well.
She showed no sign of sorrow: but she spoke rarely to any one. A dead dull weight seemed to hang over her. To preachers, class-leaders, gossips, who upbraided her for not letting them see her mother, she replied by silence. People thought her becoming idiotic158.
The day after the last creditor156 was paid she packed up her little box:
hired a cart to take her to the nearest coach; and vanished from
Aberalva, without bidding farewell to a human being, even to her
School-children.
* * * * *
Vavasour had been buried more than a week. Mark and Mary were sitting in the dining-room, Mark at his port and Mary at her work, when the footboy entered.
"Sir, there's a young woman wants to speak with you."
"Show her in, if she looks respectable," said Mark, who had slippers159 on, and his feet on the fender, and was, therefore, loth to move.
"Oh, quite respectable, sir, as ever I see;" and the lad ushered160 in a figure, dressed and veiled in deep black.
"Well, ma'am, sit down, pray; and what can I do for you!"
"Can you tell me, sir," answered a voice of extraordinary sweetness and gentleness, very firm, and composed withal, "if Mr. Thomas Thurnall is in Whitbury?"
"Thurnall? He has sailed for the East a week ago. May I ask your business with him? Can I help you in it?"
The black damsel paused so long, that both Mary and her father felt uneasy, and a cloud passed over Mark's brow.
"Can the boy have been playing tricks?" said he to himself.
"Then, sir, as I hear that you have influence, can you get me a situation as one of the nurses who are going out thither, so I hear?"
"Get you a situation? Yes, of course, if you are competent."
"Thank you, sir. Perhaps, if you could be so very kind as to tell me to whom I am to apply in town; for I shall go thither to-night."
"My goodness!" cried Mark. "Old Mark don't do things in this off-hand, cold-blooded way. Let us know who you are, my dear, and about Mr. Thurnall. Have you anything against him?"
She was silent.
"Mary, just step into the next room."
"If you please, sir," said the same gentle voice, "I had sooner that the lady should stay. I have nothing against Mr. Thurnall, God knows. He has rather something against me."
Another pause.
Mary rose, and went up to her and took her hand.
"Do tell us who you are, and if we can do anything for you."
And she looked winningly up into her face.
The stranger drew a long breath and lifted her veil. Mary and Mark both started at the beauty of the countenance which she revealed—but in a different way. Mark gave a grunt161 of approbation162: Mary turned pale as death.
"I suppose that it is but right and reasonable that I should tell you, at least give proof of my being an honest person. For my capabilities163 as a nurse—I believe you know Mrs. Vavasour? I heard that she has been staying here"
"Of course. Do you know her?"
A sad smile passed over her face.
"Yes, well enough, at least for her to speak for me. I should have asked her or Miss St. Just to help me to a nurse's place: but I did not like to trouble them in their distress164. How is the poor lady now, sir?"
"I know who she is!" cried Mary by a sudden inspiration. "Is not your name Harvey! Are you not the schoolmistress who saved Mr. Thurnall's life? who behaved so nobly in the cholera? Yes! I knew you were! Come and sit down, and tell me all! I have so longed to know you! Dear creature, I have felt as if you were my own sister. He—Mr. Thurnall— wrote often about all your heroism147."
Grace seemed to choke down somewhat: and then answered steadfastly—
"I did not come here, my dear lady, to hear such kind words, but to do an errand to Mr. Thurnall. You have heard, perhaps, that when he was wrecked165 last spring he lost some money. Yes! Then it was stolen. Stolen!" she repeated with a great gasp166: "never mind by whom. Not by me."
"You need not tell us that, my dear," interrupted Mark.
"God kept it. And I have it; here!" and she pressed her hands tight over her bosom. "And here I must keep it till I give it into his hands, if I follow him round the world!" And as she spoke her eyes shone in the lamplight, with an unearthly brilliance167 which made Mary shudder.
Mark Armsworth poured a libation to the goddess of Puzzledom, in the shape of a glass of port, which first choked him, and then descended168 over his clean shirt front. But after he had coughed himself black in the face, he began:—
"My good girl, if you are Grace Harvey, you're welcome to my roof and an honour to it, say I: but as for taking all that money with you across the seas, and such a pretty helpless young thing as you are, God help you, it mustn't be, and shan't be, and that's flat."
"But I must go to him!" said she in so na?ve half-wild a fashion, that Mary, comprehending all, looked imploringly at her father, and putting her arm round Grace, forced her into a seat.
"I must go, sir, and tell him—tell him myself. No one knows what I know about it."
Mark shook his head.
"Could I not write to him? He knows me as well as he knows his own father."
Grace shook her head, and pressed her hand upon her heart, where Tom's belt lay.
"Do you think, madam, that after having had the dream of this belt, the shape of this belt, and of the money which is in it, branded into my brain for months—years it seems like—by God's fire of shame and suspicion;—and seen him poor, miserable169, fretful, unbelieving, for the want of it—O God! I can't tell even your sweet face all.—Do you think that now I have it in my hands, I can part with it, or rest, till it is in his? No, not though I walk barefoot after him to the ends of the earth."
"Let his father have the money, then, and do you take him the belt as a token, if you must—"
"That's it, Mary!" shouted Mark Armsworth, "you always come in with the right hint, girl!" and the two, combining their forces, at last talked poor Grace over. But upon going out herself she was bent170. To ask his forgiveness in her mother's name, was her one fixed idea. He might die, and not know all, not have forgiven all, and go she must.
"But it is a thousand to one against your seeing him. We, even, don't know exactly where he is gone."
Grace shuddered171 a moment; and then recovered her calmness.
"I did not expect this: but be it so. I shall meet him if God wills; and if not, I can still work—work."
"I think, Mary, you'd better take the young woman upstairs, and make her sleep here to-night," said Mark, glad of an excuse to get rid of them; which, when he had done, he pulled his chair round in front of the fire, put a foot on each hob, and began rubbing his eyes vigorously.
"Dear me! Dear me! What a lot of good people there are in this old world, to be sure! Ten times better than me, at least—make one ashamed of oneself:—and if one isn't even good enough for this world, how's one to be good enough for heaven?"
And Mary carried Grace upstairs, and into her own bed-room. A bed should be made up there for her. It would do her good just to have anything so pretty sleeping in the same room. And then she got Grace supper, and tried to make her talk: but she was distrait172, reserved; for a new and sudden dread had seized her, at the sight of that fine house, fine plate, fine friends. These were his acquaintances, then: no wonder that he would not look on such as her. And as she cast her eye round the really luxurious68 chamber, and (after falteringly173 asking Mary whether she had any brothers and sisters) guessed that she must be the heiress of all that wealth, she settled in her heart that Tom was to marry Mary; and the intimate tone in which Mary spoke of him to her, and her innumerable inquiries174 about him, made her more certain that it was a settled thing. Handsome she was not, certainly; but so sweet and good; and that her own beauty (if she was aware that she possessed175 any) could have any weight with Tom, she would have considered as an insult to his sense; so she made up her mind slowly, but steadily176, that thus it was to be; and every fresh proof of Mary's sweetness and goodness was a fresh pang177 to her, for it showed the more how probable it was that Tom loved her.
Therefore she answered all Mary's questions carefully and honestly, as to a person who had a right to ask; and at last went to her bed, and, worn out in body and mind, was asleep in a moment. She had not remarked the sigh which escaped Mary, as she glanced at that beautiful head, and the long black tresses which streamed down for a moment over the white shoulders ere they were knotted back for the night, and then at her own poor countenance in the glass opposite.
* * * * *
It was long past midnight when Grace woke, she knew not how, and looking up, saw a light in the room, and Mary sitting still over a book, her head resting on her hands. She lay quiet and thought she heard a sob179. She was sure she heard tears drop on the paper. She stirred, and Mary was at her side in a moment.
"Did you want anything?"
"Only to—to remind you, ma'am, it is not wise to sit up so late."
"Only that?" said Mary, laughing. "I do that every night, alone with
God; and I do not think He will be the farther off for your being here!"
"One thing I had to ask," said Grace. "It would lesson my labour so, if you could give me any hint of where he might be."
"We know, as we told you, as little as you. His letters are to be sent to Constantinople. Some from Aberalva are gone thither already."
"And mine among them!" thought Grace. "It is God's will!… Madam, if it would not seem forward on my part—if you could tell him the truth, and what I have for him, and where I am, in case he might wish—wish to see me—when you were writing."
"Of course I will, or my father will," said Mary, who did not like to confess either to herself or to Grace, that it was very improbable that she would ever write again to Tom Thurnall.
And so the two sweet maidens180, so near that moment to an explanation, which might have cleared up all, went on each in her ignorance; for so it was to be.
The next morning Grace came down to breakfast, modest, cheerful, charming. Mark made her breakfast with them; gave her endless letters of recommendation; wanted to take her to see old Doctor Thurnall, which she declined, and then sent her to the station in his own carriage, paid her fare first-class to town, and somehow or other contrived181, with Mary's help, that she should find in her bag two ten-pound notes, which she had never seen before. After which he went out to his counting-house, only remarking to Mary—
"Very extraordinary young woman, and very handsome, too. Will make some man a jewel of a wife, if she don't go mad, or die of the hospital fever."
To which Mary fully178 assented182. Little she guessed, and little did her father, that it was for Grace's sake that Tom had refused her hand.
A few days more, and Grace Harvey also had gone Eastward183 Ho.
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1
prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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6
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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9
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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11
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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13
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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14
gadding
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| n.叮搔症adj.蔓生的v.闲逛( gad的现在分词 )；游荡；找乐子；用铁棒刺 | |
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15
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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17
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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18
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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21
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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espy
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| v.（从远处等）突然看到 | |
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30
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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32
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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34
transgression
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| n.违背；犯规；罪过 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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37
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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transgressions
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| n.违反，违法，罪过( transgression的名词复数 ) | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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40
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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41
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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42
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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43
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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44
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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45
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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46
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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47
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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48
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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49
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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50
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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52
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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53
shrieked
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| v.尖叫( shriek的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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55
equivocation
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| n.模棱两可的话，含糊话 | |
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56
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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57
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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58
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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59
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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61
estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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62
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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63
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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64
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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65
organise
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| vt.组织，安排，筹办 | |
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66
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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69
luxuriousness
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70
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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71
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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72
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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73
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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74
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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75
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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76
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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77
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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78
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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79
isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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80
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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81
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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82
panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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83
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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84
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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85
coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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86
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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87
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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88
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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89
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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90
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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91
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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92
writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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93
stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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94
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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95
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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96
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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97
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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98
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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99
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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100
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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101
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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102
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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104
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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105
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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106
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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107
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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108
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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109
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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110
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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111
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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112
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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113
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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114
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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115
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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116
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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117
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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118
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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119
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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120
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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122
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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123
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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124
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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125
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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126
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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127
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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128
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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129
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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130
sputter
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| n.喷溅声；v.喷溅 | |
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131
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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132
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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133
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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134
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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135
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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136
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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137
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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138
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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140
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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141
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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142
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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143
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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144
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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145
endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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146
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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147
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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148
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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149
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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150
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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151
epidemics
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| n．流行病 | |
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152
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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153
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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154
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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155
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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156
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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157
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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158
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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159
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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160
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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161
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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162
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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163
capabilities
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| n.能力( capability的名词复数 )；可能；容量；[复数]潜在能力 | |
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164
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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165
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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166
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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167
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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168
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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169
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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170
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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171
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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172
distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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173
falteringly
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| 口吃地，支吾地 | |
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174
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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175
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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176
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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177
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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178
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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179
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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180
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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181
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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182
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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